


Frustrations of a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Marvel Bites [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes doesn't give a shit, Clint Barton gives too much of a shit, Friendship, Gen, Getting beaten up by a punching bag, Working out your frustration through judicious application of brute strength, Workout, Workout porn, irritation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:23:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Clint is a testy little shit and Bucky ignores everything until he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint's POV

**Author's Note:**

> I just like writing these two, okay? Okay.
> 
> 100% inspired by this post: http://marveldogsofwar.tumblr.com/post/114462226122 and just the idea of Bucky working out because he's bored af.

“I really thought I was going to snap and hurt someone, Nat.” Clint pushes through the glass door with his shoulder, cell phone pressed to his ear and his duffle in both hands. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. I don’t like debriefings, especially when they are debriefings where I’m being told that I shouldn’t have done what I did by people who were not there. For real. It’s disgusting the amount of pompous bullshit can come down the line when you are the last one in it.” He drops the bag by the slate grey bench and plops down next to it on the floor to yank off his boots. “Yeah. No. Still telling you not to laugh.” Trousers are the next to go. He debates just working off his hot head in his boxers. Considering the gym is at full capacity for once, he pulls out the sweats anyway, not wanting more goddamned notes in his file. “Sitwell was a prick and HYDRA, but at least he didn’t fuck around. He knew how it could get in the field, and he didn’t berate me if I had to blow up a few things to distract - yes, I know! That’s what I said. The sons of bitches send me in, no backup, no extraction plan, and then expect me to - uh huh. Exactly.” He sets the phone down to yank his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued UnderArmour shirt over his head, not bothering to put his workout tee on. Let everyone in the gym stare at his battered state. He’s proud of the bruises and the cuts. At least he’s alive to enjoy them. “And if I hear one more person bitching about the cost of operations like this I’m gonna shove my bow so far up their ass they will be tasting polycarbonate and Kevlar for weeks. Ha! No, I didn’t actually say that, but it was a near thing, Nat. _So_ close to getting fired today, you have no idea. Or maybe you do. Remember five years ago, after Pittsville? Yeah, that close."

He stands back up, bare toes wiggling. He's itching to get at one of the more resilient punching bags. “Hey, do you remember which bag Steve uses down here? I’m going to kick it until I pass out or it breaks, so I want a good one. Blue? Of course, it would have to be blue.” He leaves the duffle at the bench, snagging a towel and a bottle of water off the shelf along the way to the mats. “Do you want to listen to me grunt and sweat, or do you want - oh, yeah. Go do that. Kill a few for me, okay? Love ya, miss ya.” He ends the call and tosses the phone to the floor with the towel, then takes a pull at the water bottle as he sizes up his target.

The blue bag - Steve Rogers’ personal workout bag - is larger than the rest, and the chain holding it to the ceiling might have had a former life holding supertankers in dry dock. Clint sighs. “Looks like I’ll be passing out before this bitch comes down.” He tosses the bottle to the side and settles into that space in his head where nothing but the target matters. It takes a while, since he’s so worked up about that stupid debrief, but he finally slides in and forgets the world. Punches and kicks land with brutal efficiency, just like his arrows. He’s not a fancy fighter, not at all. Let Nat have the elegant air work, the ballerina twirls and snake-like strikes. He’s more like an attack dog, each move designed to incapacitate - or kill, if he has to. He really doesn’t like to. But needs necessitate…

He slams his fist into the bag, then a knee, then a backfist and a full turn into a back kick. He’s not thinking about the assignment, he’s not thinking of the pricks that dressed him down for property damage. _Wanna talk property damage? Talk to Tony and Thor and Bruce. No, not Bruce. The Big Guy. Hell, talk to Steve, even. That crazy kook took out the entire fucking Triskelion!_ All he did was set off a few IEDs to throw the guards off his scent. Not his problem that they stored munitions and fuel unsafely.

_Oops, guess I am thinking about it._

He throws one more punch and holds onto the bag so it doesn’t swing back and smack him in the face. As heavy as it is, it’ll probably crack his skull in two. He breathes and curses the poor fucker whose iPod is blaring the worst possible redneck rock tinnily across the room. “Damn it.” He yanks out his hearing aids and is left in blissful silence. "That's better." The devices end up on the towel, and he circles the bag to find a different point of attack. His reflection shifts in the wall-mounted mirrors, radiating several angles of irritated part-time Avenger over every surface. It also reflects everyone else clearing an area for James Barnes to walk through the room.

_Jesus Christ._

Clint ignores the man - Barnes, not Winter Soldier, not Asset, just Barnes. A man. A man that holy shit. Holy _shit_. Clint bounces lightly on his toes and steadfastly does not look at Barnes as he strips off a threadbare S.H.I.E.L.D. shirt, revealing the glory of the shoulder-waist ratio at its best. Screw Steve’s Dorito body, Barnes has got him beat in spades. He’s got a black tank beneath the shirt for warmth, but Clint’s still not looking. Really. He’s not. The arm isn't that big of a deal, now that they've all seen it - and the scarring - many times since Barnes became attached to Steve's hip. Barnes doesn't like wearing shirts around the Tower's living area, but that's alright because damn, man, that  _view._ Ugh, not. Looking.

He twitches his eyes back to the bag, gives a couple good thwacks and elbows, resolute to beat the shit out of almost every joint he can use as a weapon. Sure, he’s gonna regret it in the morning, as they say. But he won’t regret it as badly as if he were to use one of the senior agent’s faces instead of the bag. He gets into the zone again; shoulders down, guard up against the swing-back, now letting it hit him once in a while so that he can practice his balance and reaction speed. He notices the other agents and personnel who use the gym either leaving or using the equipment the furthest away from Barnes. _You’re kidding me, right?_ It pisses him off a little more. He distantly wonders if it bothers Barnes as much as it seems to be bothering him. He takes his eyes off the bag, holding a hand out to catch it again.

Barnes is at the leg machine, doing presses, not even paying much attention to his environs, which is...well, it’s strange but good. _Must feel safe here, somehow. I don’t even feel all that safe._ Clint sees a couple more guys vacate, and watches Barnes for his reaction. There isn’t any. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s being watched.

 _So, completely ignoring everyone. Good. That's...good. Great._ No need for Clint to get all worked up. Doesn’t change anything. He does anyway.

He attacks the bag with more vigor, if that is even possible. He can feel every abused muscle protesting the workout now, but he needs this. Damn it, he’s so pissy. He should just go take a shower or something. He rolls the idea of asking Bruce if he’s still got some of that Hulk-Sedative-that-doesn’t-quite-work in his lab. _It might not work on the Big Guy, but it sure works on Steve._ Clint grunts in dark humor at the memory of Steve staring at the dart in his thigh and swearing at the poor baby agent that had fired it in a beautiful Brooklyn accent, then dropping to the concrete with a clatter. Tony will probably be angry at that agent forever, considering it happened a month ago now and he still corners the man and growls, “He could have died, you one-celled organism!” before stalking away.

More people are leaving, and one huge security guy takes one look at who is in the room and doesn’t even come in. Clint, even knowing that Barnes probably doesn’t give a shit, looks over at him anyway.

Nope, still not giving a shit. He’s doing pull-ups on the bar now, and Clint’s brain shorts out for long enough that he forgets he’s punching things to feel better. _Wow, that is just not fair. How can that man...and with that awesome metal arm…_ It’s even more of an insult to see it done so effortlessly. Clint groans and goes back to punching things to feel better and to forget that he’s staring at James fucking Barnes as he’s working out. The mirrors are not helping, not at all. Sweat is pouring off Clint, rolling down his back and making every little abrasion and cut sting like the devil, but he doesn’t stop. He might even be leaving bloody marks on the bag since he forgot to wrap his hands. Still not stopping.

He switches it up to give his hands a break, kicking and twisting, his feet sliding like the mats are oiled. He feels the burn in his muscles, feels the exhaustion sitting at the base of his spine, just waiting for him to pause so it can creep up into his shoulders and mind. Just a little bit longer, then he can go pass out on his bed for ten hours. He sees Barnes moving things around in the mirrors, in the corner of his eyes as he moves around the bag, pistoning his knees in for kidney and groin shots and breaking invisible ribs with his elbows. The next time Clint catches him in his vision, Barnes has stretched out on the floor under the pull-up bar, the bar itself on the absolute lowest rung. He rears up into a crunch and reaches up, grips the bar with both hands, and sets his feet shoulder-width apart. Clint throws more punches and ignores just how god blessed amazing Barnes’ thighs look with those shorts riding up along the curved muscles, bulging with the strain of supporting his weight as he hangs from the bar, almost horizontal to the ground. _Jesus, why is he wearing shorts? And what’s with the normal running shoes and white - white! - socks? Doesn’t that man live in black boots and riot gear or something like that? Leather, at least?_ Clint shakes his head and resolutely attacks the bag again, turning his back on Barnes. Not that it does any good, because the mirror is right there and reflecting Barnes slowly lowering his wide shoulders to the mat, then yanking himself back up to touch the bar with his chest.

Clint hits the bag as hard as he can and completely forgets about everything in a split second because _holy shit he’s doing incline pull ups._ Jesus. _Christ._ Clint loves those, but they are so fucking hard and Barnes is just in beast mode, pumping through the set like it’s nothing -

The bag slams into him, knocking him a good five feet back. _Whoops, this is bad._ The back of his head clangs against the leg of a bench and everything turns into stars and technicolor pukefest. “Owwww, fuck.” He swims up through the blast of strobe lights and groans. He blinks it away and rubs the back of his head as best as he can, flat on his back like he is. "Damn, that bag's got something against me."

Suddenly, Barnes is swimming in Clint's sparking vision, his sweaty face screwed up into a moue of concern and his pale eyes flicking over Clint. His mouth is moving, and Clint fights to make his aching head work enough to read his lips. _Oh. He’s asking if I'm alright_. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just...ugh. Stupid bag.” He motions at his ears because shit, Barnes doesn’t know he’s deaf. “Can’t hear you, don’t have my ears on.”

Barnes’ mouth stops moving, and he moves away. Clint figures that is that; he said he was fine, and Barnes will go back to doing that amazing thing with the bar and Clint can go back to pretending not to watch him. Except that isn’t it. Barnes returns to his vision, Clint’s water bottle and towel in his big hands. He sets them down and reaches out with the metal hand. Clint takes it, grateful for the assistance in getting into a sitting position. He accepts the water bottle, pouring most of it over his head before drinking the rest. Barnes hands him his towel, then surprises the absolute fuck out of him by awkwardly signing.

[Okay?]

Clint stares at him. “Uh, yeah. Fine.” He screws his face into a ball of self-pity. “I think my concussion has a concussion.” He continues staring as Barnes nods and sticks his tongue out as he moves his hands again. Clint stares at him some more because he’s noticed that Barnes is as close to adorable as possible when he’s concentrating.  _Man, wonder what he looks like behind a scope? Probably sex with a scramjet engine attached._

[Need doctor?]

Clint laughed. “Naw. Some Advil, some more water - “ Clint stops talking when Barnes moves away again, presumably to get those two things. Clint turns and sees the assholes standing around, looking like they were trying to gather the courage to...what? Come to his rescue? Rescue him from what? A concerned person trying to help him after he made a complete fool out of himself because he couldn’t stop staring at said concerned person? He’s pissed off again, and not because of the debriefing. “Hey! What’re you all staring at? Go work out or something!” He struggles to his knees, weaving as the room tilts a little. Just before he topples again, Barnes is at his shoulder, cool metal hand on the back of his neck. Clint growls as he sees the asshole closest to them jerk in reaction. “He is keeping me upright, you fucknugget!”

Barnes is handing him something, and Clint takes it. It’s not Advil, and it’s not water. It’s his hearing aids. Clint laughs and shoves them into his ears, fingers instinctively turning them on. The world comes into focus as his hearing returns. The redneck rock is still playing. “Can someone turn that infernal shit off?” He looks up at Barnes when he realizes he can hear everything. Everything includes the crowd of assholes telling Barnes to get away from him, don’t touch him, stop it. Barnes himself looks... _oh shit_. There’s a sad cloud hanging over his eyes as he ignores them all.  _Oh, hell no. This isn't happening._

Even when he's ornery, Clint is usually a pretty laid back guy. Not now. Clint goes from pissed to apocalyptic in record time.

He shoves to his feet, using Barnes as a springboard as he turns on the group. “Ok, that stops now!” He grabs up the water bottle Barnes brought over for him and whips it with beautiful accuracy at the dick in the back being the loudest, hitting him in the face and making him go down with a shout. “Everyone _shut_ the _hell up!_ ”

He hears someone call for security and cackles. “Yeah, that’s right. Brainwashed assassin on the loose! Call Hill, call Coulson, call the fucking Avengers! Call them all! Let’s get the Hulk down here, too!”

“Barton, let’s go.”

Clint grunts and rolls his shoulders. “Naw, I wanna fuck someone up. I’m edgy. Let’s do this. Get Steve down here, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with me. That's if he doesn't cream all you pricks for picking on his best fucking friend!” He shouts the last sentence at the gathered group, who are milling around nervously.

“Barton.”

Someone shouts something, and Clint hisses. “C’mon then! Let’s go, dickwad! Come at me, bro!”

“Barton!”

Clint turns around and is face to face with Barnes. “What?”

“Let’s go. Don’t want this to go south any further than it already has. C’mon.” Barnes has his stuff in his metal hand, and reaches out for Clint’s elbow.

Clint growls. “Already in Antarctica, man. Can’t get much further than that.”

“Nope. I’d say Texas, if anything I’ve heard about you is true. We aren’t going much further than that. Let’s blow this joint.” Barnes walks over to the bench, grabs Clint’s bag and shoves his things into it. “C’mon.”

Clint’s running on misplaced adrenaline now, so his feet don’t go out from under him as he follows Barnes. “They’re blocking the door,” he mutters. The group of agents is, indeed, blocking the exit.

“That’s their prerogative, not mine.” Barnes looks up at them. “Move.”

They make a path, grumbling the whole time. Clint grumbles right the hell back at them, and Barnes keeps him moving forward until they are out the door. The door shuts behind them, and Clint takes a deep breath. “Alright, let’s go.”

“That’s what I’ve been sayin’ this whole time, you twit.” Barnes huffs a laugh, and damned if that’s the first time Clint has ever heard him laugh.

“Yeah?” He grins. “I figured you’d be right there with me, man? What gives?”

Barnes’ nose wrinkles as he returns the grin. “Never did like to fight. Steve did all the fighting. I just finished them.” He pats Clint on the back. “Let’s get your head checked out and forget about all these crumbs.”

Clint blinks at his words. “You do know what year it is, right?”

Barnes laughs for the second time today, and Clint is completely bowled over at how young it makes him look. “Ha. Yeah, I know. You should hear Steve. That little shit has got some zingers.”

As Barnes takes off down the hall, passing up a few big guys headed for the gym, Clint shakes his head. He could get used to being buddy-buddy with Barnes.

 


	2. Bucky's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's side of the story.

“I’m goin’ to the gym, you comin’?” Bucky throws his duffle over his shoulder and cocks a hip in Steve’s direction. The man barely acknowledges his existence, too caught up in his latest project for the Smithsonian. “Earth to Steve! Yo!”

Steve mumbles around the pencil stuck in his mouth.

Bucky rolls his eyes and sighs. “Y’know, I’m sure they’ve forgiven you for stealing your old uniform by now.”

Steve takes the pencil out of his mouth and jams it behind his ear. “It was a museum piece, Buck,” he mutters.

Bucky shakes his head in exasperation. “It was yours to begin with, jackass!”

“Museum piece!” Steve finally looks up and smiles. “You’re the one who wrecked it, at any rate.”

Bucky snorts. “Not my fault you were in my way.” They make it a point of to poke fun at what had happened on that helicarrier. They’ve found it helps Bucky deal with that whole mess of a day. He waves a hand at Steve and walks out the door of their shared quarters. Steve can go ahead and rot away trying to figure out the best angle for lighting on a painting. Bucky’s gonna go sweat for an hour.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. facility that got set up earlier that month is nothing short of spectacular, but damned if he could find his way around this maze. Nevermind that he can’t swing a cat by the tail without hitting at least three agents. The thing that annoys him the most is the ‘if I can’t see him, he can’t see me’ mentality whenever he walks into a room or shows up in the canteen or even breathes near one of them. _They couldn’t be any more jumpy if they were crickets._ Bucky hikes the bag further on his shoulder and runs a hand through his hair as yet another agent nearly runs into an open door to avoid him. _Sheesh. Do I smell or somethin’?_ Truth is, he knows exactly why they do this every time.

The Asset. The man he used to be, before he found himself again. Washington. The very thought of the Winter Soldier gracing their corridors has the staff of this place clamoring to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible. If they are trying to avoid his attention, they are failing on a mass scale. Thrilling.

He should talk to Steve about setting up a training session to teach these people how to not be so obvious. It’s almost disgusting.

He rolls his eyes and continues on down the hall to the elevator banks. Thank God there’s about a hundred of the things. There’s a group of people waiting, but his ends up being empty. _Wonder if Banner deals with this shit. Betcha he does_. Bucky snorts and ignores the sinking feeling in his gut as the car drops. _Someone’s gotta convince him to wear green contacts one day and just stare at people. ‘Don’t make me angry. You won’t like me very much if I get angry.’ Ha!_ The doors open and Bucky strides out, not making eye contact with anything or anyone. He don’t need no one’s approval or acceptance. He just needs to work out some kinks in his shoulders and back. No approval needed for that, right? People move out of his way, and he walks right through them. The doors to the gymnasium creak open under his hands, and everyone inside looks up.

Oh, shit. Why did he have to pick the one of the busiest times to come down here? Too many people. Bucky shakes his head and takes a page from Steve “I Take Up The Entire Room Even Though I Weigh As Much As A Sack of Flour” Rogers himself, walking in like his name was on the deed. People move. Bucky wants to scream at them.

Once inside, he spots a good space that has a collection of equipment that he can use for a good all-over workout and heads there. Someone’s iPod is playing something he doesn’t recognize and immediately decides he can’t fuckin’ stand. He turns and spots Hawkeye on the other side of the room, beating the stuffing out of Steve’s bag. _Okay, that’s new_. Bucky wasn’t aware that someone other than Thor or Steve could actually use that bag. No, that’s not right. Anyone can use it. But _moving_ it is another story. Hawkeye is just going to town on that thing. Hot damn. Bucky shakes his head, a smile on his lips as he takes off his overshirt. He leaves the tank on to keep the massive bruise on his side hidden from view. No one needs to see that shit. He sizes up the equipment, ignoring the milling staff swirling around and away from him. _Legs first, let’s work from the bottom up_. He adjusts everything and lays down, placing his feet flat on the press. A few reps of this, and he’ll be awake enough to try something new. He can feel the stares burning into his skin, but what does he care? One of the stares doesn’t feel judging or hostile, though, and it intrigues him. He thinks it’s Hawkeye, but that doesn’t make sense. Hawkeye wouldn’t be lookin’ at him like a prize to be won. _Ugh, what’s Hawkeye’s name?_ Bucky thinks while he powers through nearly fifteen hundred pounds of weight in reps of ten. _Benson? Beckett? Naw, that can’t be it. Boris? Barcl - Barton! Barton, that’s it!_ He grins, then blows out some tension as he finishes the set and slams the bar back into its cradle. Apparently it’s been a while. The crowds have cut down by half, and his admirer isn’t staring at him anymore. Barnes looks up at Barton. He’s ripping through another attack at the bag like he never stopped, sweat beading on his forehead and across his back. _Naw, couldn't be him._ Barnes watches him, head hanging off the edge of the bench, for a moment before getting to his feet and doing a quick job of his core set.

Something about Barton just gets to him, y’know? Speaks to him on another level, deeper than the superficial friendliness of Stark or the mutual respect-resentment of Romanova and Hill. It’s closer than any of that. Even the tentative extension of comradeship from Banner and Wilson doesn’t hold a candle to what Barton seems to exude every time he gets near the archer. From the moment he walked into Stark’s tower, ready to turn himself over for crimes real and imagined, Barton’s been there. At a distance, of course. That’s a given. Barton doesn’t seem to be the kind of man to drape himself over new people and try to be buddy-buddy with them. That’s Stark’s job. Barton seems...distant. Careful. Watchful. Like he waits for someone to mess up before he makes a judgement call.

As he sets up for pull-ups, he uses the excuse of observing Hawkeye to ignore the rest of the bastards in the room, who are openly watching _him_. What a joke. It’s not like he’s gonna blow the place up. Again. Besides, that was Steve’s doing, not his. _Someone needs to keep things that fly out of Steve’s hands. He can’t land them worth a shit._ He reaches up to the bar and pumps through the pull-ups. To hell with an hour, he’ll be lucky if he gets thirty minutes out in this mess. He closes his eyes, both as a big fuck-you to the milling men - _no women, that’s odd_ \- and to visualize himself in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t need to watch in the mirrors, he just needs to -

The eyes are on him again, caressing and assessing. _Jesus, who is that?_ He wants to look around to see if he can catch the man in the act. That is, if they are actually a man. It’s not like he’s adverse to men’s gazes. Sometimes, he wonders if Steve’s a bit...that way. The way Steve looks at other guys isn’t just to see who he can take down faster. Funny old bird, Steve is. Doesn’t matter none to him, there’s nothin’ wrong with it. And who's to say that it is a man? Or even...oh, what do they call it now, cisgender? No reason to assume, now is there? Whomever it is, Barnes is just happy this person doesn't seem to despise him.

He feels that gaze slip off him and he opens his eyes to one hell of a sight. He stops mid-pull and just watches Barton go into beast mode. He’s not punching anymore, which Bucky is glad for because that started to look painful as hell. But those kicks...Jesus. Steve can kick like a mule, but Barton is making like a damned kangaroo or somethin’. Whatever animal has the hellish I-will-gut-you-with-my-middle-toe kicks. Cassowary. Yeah. Damn.

He feels something stirring inside, something he hasn’t felt in so damned long that it feels absolutely foreign to him. _Huh. Maybe I’m a little that way._ He drops down onto the mat and fits the bar to the lowest rung. There’s something he’s been wanting to try, something that Romanova told him about. She says it will destroy any manly self-confidence he has. He snorted at her at the time, but he’d looked it up. Inverted pull-ups look easy. The comments on the forum tell him that they might have been invented by the Devil himself. Only one way to find out. Maybe it'll keep him focused enough to ignore...

He glances up in time to see Barton land some killer knee strikes, rocking the bag back so far it creaks in protest. _Ow ow ow. My kidneys want to shut down just watching him. God damn he’s good._ Now he wants to spar with Barton, just to see how far he’d get before the man destroys him. Why the man bothers with sniping, he will never know. _Alright, Barnes. Stop staring, you look like a goof_. He lays down beneath the bar and regrets wearing shorts entirely. He’s not exactly wearing anything under them, and he doesn’t want to show off the boys, but there’s only one way to do this, and he ain’t about to get back up to turn around. May as well give his secret admirer a show they’ll remember. He plants his hands on the bar and hangs from it, visualizing the tutorial in his head. _Fast up, then slow back down. Make yourself work for the rest._ Alright. Not that bad. He pulls himself up, then lowers himself slowly. A few more of those, and he’s already feeling it in his arms.

He’s also feeling those eyes again.

He does a few more, already cursing Romanova soundly in his mind. _Bitch. She’s right, she’s always right. These things are killer. God damn._ Sweat is starting to pool between his pectorals, and he’s getting warm as hell. He opens his eyes and _holy shit._ Holy shit, Barton _is_  the one staring at him. One solid punch sends the bag swinging wide, and Barton just. Stops. And. Stares. His jaw isn’t quite open, but it’s loose in...what? Awe? Shock? Something…

The bag is coming back, and it’s gonna...whoops.

He drops off the bar and rolls out from under it as fast as he can because Barton just got piledriven by Steve’s punching bag, and he knows that thing weighs as much as a small APC, it just has to. He is by Barton’s side in moments, leaning over the man as he groans and blinks. He can see the little blue birdies flapping around Barton’s head like in a cartoon, and it makes him smile.

Then Barton speaks. “Owwww, fuck. Damn, that bag has something against me.”

His voice sounds off, too loud and too blurry. Bucky loses the smile. _Oh, man, he’s got a concussion. Shit. It’s my fault, too. Damn it._ He leans over further, checking for external bruising. “Hey, man, you all right?”

Barton stares up at him, his eyes jerky and wet. His brow scrunches up in confusion, then smoothes out. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just…” He groans. “Stupid bag.” He reaches up and flaps his hands at both ears. “Can’t hear you, don’t have my ears on.”

Ears? Bucky blinks at him, befuddled. Then he gets it. Barton’s _deaf_. Wow. That’s...he didn’t know that. Damn. He moves away, unwilling to leave him alone now. He spots Barton’s towel on the floor, next to his water bottle, and snatches both up to bring to him. Barton drinks, then pours the rest over his head. Bucky hands him the towel as an afterthought. Then he searches his brain for the little bit he knows of American Sign Language. It’s not much, and he might screw it up… He remembers the sign for “Okay” and flips that at Barton, hoping that he gets it.

Barton stares again. “Uh, yeah. Fine.” He winces. “I think my concussion has a concussion.”

Bucky tries to remember the sign for ‘doctor’. He licks his lips as he thinks, then moves his hands in an approximation of the motion. Barton laughs at him, and Barnes thinks he’s asked him if he wants an elephant or something.

“Naw. Some Advil, some more water…”

Oh, that he can do. Bucky goes to hunt that down right quick. He finds a small first aid kit and digs into that, then grabs another water bottle. While he’s doing that, the agents left in the gym start moving around like they are thinking of starting something. Great. Behind him, Barton shouts abuse at them. Bucky turns to make sure that the goof isn’t trying to get to his feet. Of course, he actually is. Bucky wants to smack him upside the head despite the head injury. He’s unsteady on his knees, and Bucky remembers Steve having some trouble with his balance when his right ear went all numb and fuzzy. He’d tilt his head to one side and squint sometimes. Maybe it’s a concussion, maybe it’s Barton’s impairment. Doesn’t matter. He pulls the hearing aids back out of his pocket, where he’d stuck them to keep them safe, when he rushes over to keep Barton from cracking his skull open for real. He lays his left hand on Barton’s neck, and holy _shit_ their audience doesn’t like that. They start yelling at him.

“Leave him alone, Barnes!”

“He doesn’t need your help!”

“You can’t do that, leave him alone!”

Barton shouts at them again. “He’s keeping me upright, you fucknugget!”

 _I wonder if he’s completely deaf or if he can actually hear them. It’d be a sad day if he’s just guessing what these clowns are saying to me._ Barnes shoves Barton’s aids into his hand, quickly, and tries to plan the quickest way out for both of them. He’s not leaving Barton’s side until he knows that the man is going to be alright on his own. But as the crowd gets more belligerent, he’s really just wanting to get the hell out of here. Now. _Fuck, this whole thing is my fault. Damn it. Shoulda just stayed and watched Steve make faces at the canvas and cuss at his oils._

“Jesu - can someone turn that infernal racket off?” Barton’s voice is more modulated now, smoother and a little warmer in tone. _Couldn’t hear himself, let alone anyone else, then. He was just guessing._ Bucky winces as Barton turns startled eyes onto his. He is about to apologize for the mess and just leave, but is frozen in place as Barton’s face goes cold and shuttered. His storm-blue eyes, though, those light up with a rage Bucky knows all too well. _Christ. Just like Steve, stickin’ up for the small man._ Time for damage control.

Barton lurches out of his grip, using his arm to steady himself. “Ok, that stops now!” He picks up the water bottle Bucky brought for him and chucks it, hitting Agent - hell, probably Fuckboy for all he cares - right between the eyes. Beautiful shot. _Another reminder that I am probably gonna get stomped into the ground if I go a few rounds with him_. Bucky tries valiantly to ignore the slight stirring between his legs. This is not the time or place, but hell, he’s always had a thing for competence. Barton’s still shouting. “Everyone shut the hell up!”

Someone calls for security, which just riles Barton even more. Bucky’s got to get him out of here before he gets any wise ideas, like taking on everyone bare-knuckled. “Barton.” Simply a name. Just to get his attention before he goes nuclear. The way he’d been going at Steve’s bag, he’s already got a chip on his shoulder, he just needs a target.

There’s about ten standing around like cows right now.

He winces again when Barton calls himself a ‘brainwashed assassin’. Yeah, he’s heard about Manhattan. He’s heard about Loki. But that doesn’t mean that Barton’s...shit. Like him. “Barton, let’s go.” It’s like herding cats, hanging with the Avengers. And now he’s got two Steves to deal with.

Barton rolls his shoulders. Oh yeah, shit’s about to get real down here. “Naw, I wanna fuck someone up. I’m edgy. Let’s do this. Get Steve down here, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with me. That’s if he doesn’t cream all you pricks for picking on his best fucking friend!”

 _Edgy doesn’t even cover it._ Bucky feels a twinge of pride that Steve would still defend him, even like this. But Barton? Why’s he doin’ this? The crowd is still milling, but they are starting to look nervous.

Some idiot shouts, “You don’t want to do this, Clint, we can take you!”

 _Haha fucking yeah right, and I’m Adolf Hitler_. Bucky holds back a snort as Barton whips his head around. “C’mon then! Let’s go, dickwad! Come at me, bro!”

Whomever came up with that phrase can burn in hell. “Barton!”

Barton turns, and Bucky realizes he’s much closer than he was before. So close he can feel body heat, which wakes up his body even more. Uh oh. “What?”

“Let’s go.” Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t want this thing going any further south than it already has. C’mon.” He really doesn’t. He hasn’t even been kinda sorta working for S.H.I.E.L.D. a week, he doesn’t want his file to be filled with ‘causes trouble’ notes already. Not to mention he might have a date with his hand and his imagination soon if he doesn't get out of Barton's space. He’s got his stuff already, so he reaches out with his flesh hand. No reason to stir up even more shit.

“Already in Antarctica, man.” Barton growls at him. “Can’t get much further than that.”

Bucky has to think about that for a second. Then he looks back to how Barton had been manhandling that bag. “Nope. I’d say Texas, if anything I’ve heard about you is true.” He doesn’t understand the code-talk, but he’ll work on it. “We aren’t going much further than that. Let’s blow this joint.” He grabs up Barton’s stuff and slings both bags over his shoulder. He reaches out for Barton again, motioning him to follow.

Barton’s still muttering, but he’s walking and that’s good. “They’re blocking the door.”

If they’re anything like the others, that won’t last. Bucky swallows a dominant snort. “That’s their prerogative.” He looks up at them and simply says, “Move.”

They do. Bucky, for the first time since he’d come here, is glad they do. He’s glad they are afraid of him and what he can do. They should be more afraid of Barton, but like he said, that’s their prerogative. Granted, they bitch the whole time. Barton makes noises at them, and again Bucky wants to cuff him over the head. _Damn it,  you are just like Steve. I’m gonna have to put a leash on you two, I swear._ Not like he’d ever say that to Barton, not if he wants his kidneys intact.

Once they make it out, Barton breathes deep. “Alright, let’s go.”

Bucky stares. “That’s what I’ve been sayin’ this whole time, you twit!” He can’t believe this shit. He just can’t believe it. He laughs, and Barton gives him a strange stare then grins.

“Yeah? I figured you’d be right there with me, man. What gives?”

Bucky shakes his head and scrunches up his nose. Why does everyone think he is the fighter out of the two? “Never did like to fight. Steve did all the fighting. I just finished them.” He pats Barton on the back. “Let’s get your head checked out and forget all about these crumbs.”

Barton’s still giving him that strange look. “You do know what year it is, right?”

Bucky’s startled into a big laugh. “Ha. Yeah, I know.” He grins. “You should hear Steve. That little shit’s got some real zingers.” He turns and heads down the hall, straight past what passes for security around here, and decides that Barton will probably be a good friend to have.

**  
  
**


End file.
